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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29703081">Innocence Died Screaming</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/dionysuswhines/pseuds/dionysuswhines'>dionysuswhines</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Spies Are Forever - Talkfine/Tin Can Brothers</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Double Agents, Enemies to Lovers, Explosions, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Secret Identity</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-25</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-25</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-15 16:48:45</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>5,106</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29703081</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/dionysuswhines/pseuds/dionysuswhines</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Curt loved in a way that was all consuming, unconditional, irrational. So it was a good thing that he didn’t love this British git who kept gatecrashing his missions. Right?</p><p>Pre-canon through post-canon. How Curt and Owen learn to love, and then love again</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Owen Carvour/Agent Curt Mega</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>11</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. London 1952 Part One</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Hi, I decided the world needed more fics about how Owen and Curt meet (and  that they wouldn't be chummy from day dot and required a friendly bit of hatred to get them going.)</p><p>Apologies in advance, I curse like a fucking sailor.</p>
    </blockquote><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Sent to London to hunt down a potential threat during his second year as a CIA Agent, Agent Curt Mega expects everything to go smoothly.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Sat in the smoky suburbs of London, Curt scanned the bar for any sign of the alleged threat he’s supposed to be following. The file he had safely hidden in his hotel room told him that he should be expecting a tall, white man, with dark hair. So far Curt hasn’t seen anyone who didn’t match that description. </p><p>He had received the file from an informant, playing a waiter in The Golden Hind. It was as thick as War and Peace –for once Curt wasn’t exaggerating. Inside it contained a series of grainy photos, handwritten notes – nearly illegible – and typed documents. There are pages and pages of information on this guy, yet Curt was sitting in this dingy bar with shitty music playing from a jukebox, a watery beer at hand, and he was supposed to find some more things about this mystery man. </p><p>Although Curt wasn’t one to question the orders he’s given he did wonder whether this mission was all too necessary, and it proved to be incredibly tedious from the get-go, but he went without a fuss. After all, when Cynthia tells you to jump, you ask how high. </p><p>Why they sent Curt, and not some rookie to deal with this was yet another questionable part of this particular mission, a first year could sit and take notes on a person with their eyes closed. It was lacking the flair, the punch that each spy mission was meant to have. The explosions, the bangs, and the fights. </p><p>Cynthia had told him before he left that there would be no need for explosions or fights – and if she found out there had been, he would be doing paperwork till his death. Of course, with some more expletives thrown in there. Sat there, nursing his beer – now too warm to enjoy – Curt concluded that he was simply being punished, as he always was with Cynthia.<br/>
Last month, he had to infiltrate a warehouse (because it’s always a warehouse) and steal some files – again, no need for explosives. By the time his mission was over, the warehouse was in ruins and nothing, but the stolen file remained. Definitely a punishment.</p><p>A man entered the bar, though Curt paid little attention to him. It being his first night in London he was past exhausted, and his brain was too foggy (due partly to the alcohol and tiredness) to make notes on every man. He slid into the seat besides Curt, in spite of the many empty ones, and Curt finally glanced up at him. Tall? Check. White? Check. Dark hair? Check. It was beginning to  grate on Curt’s nerves that the description was so vague, and none of the photos showed any discernible features. The quicker he could be finished with this mission the better. </p><p>Despite the physical description lacking severely, Curt did know plenty about the guy's job to be able to possibly identify him purely on the way he acted. He was meant to be MI6, and the man besides him certainly did not hold himself like a spy. He was too relaxed, chatting too easily to the bartender, almost like they were friends. Spies don’t have friends, and they certainly don’t speak loud enough that the entire bar could hear the conversation. If this was his guy (which Curt doubted), this job would be too easy.</p><p>Not only the CIA had filed this guy as a concern, many agencies around the world had their eye out for him, though all had despairing poor descriptions. British bloke, undisclosed name. The usual. The guy ordered a whiskey, and Curt debated whether the integrity of his mission would be affected if he ordered just one stronger drink.</p><p> “You look tense fella, where you from?’’ Curt stiffened his shoulders, and subtlety moved to further conceal the gun in his waistband as if by instinct. Schooling an easy – though obviously fake smile – on this face, he answered in his version of a good English accent.<br/>
“What makes you think I’m tense,’’ Curt attempted to keep his answer as vague as possibly, hoping it wouldn’t lead to more questions from the man who was now staring at Curt like he was an exhibition in a museum. </p><p>“I could tell from the moment I walked in. You’re sat by yourself, not expecting anyone, and trust me no-one just goes to this bar for a drink and then leaves.’’</p><p>He was unsure of exactly what the man was insinuating but replied nonetheless so not to prompt suspicion. “You’re here by yourself.’’ Short, snappy sentences; like he was taught. </p><p>“No, I’m not.’’ </p><p>Curt raised an eyebrow – a skill passed down from his mother – as he made a pointed look towards the empty space around the man beside him.</p><p> “I’m talking to you am I not mate?’’ </p><p>Curt didn’t reply, instead sipping his drink – which was now beyond the reasonable temperature. “God I never introduced myself, did I?’’ </p><p>Curt didn’t reply, but the man – who had now introduced himself as Joe – carried on and put out a hand. Shaking it went against everything he knew, but the idea of leaving him hanging seemed erroneous. “I’m Nick, it’s a pleasure to meet you.’’ Pleasure was one way of putting it, Curt hoped if he was polite then the man would leave him alone quicker. </p><p>“See not, alone am I?’’ Joe said with the most cocky smirk he could muster.  Curt could suddenly understand how Joe could extract so much information – he was so annoying that he probably probed them with questions relentlessly until they gave in. They had known each other all of five minutes and suddenly Curt was craving the boredom of sitting there alone, nursing an expensive drink. </p><p>Again, he didn’t provide a response, yet Joe continued to talk – pausing intermittently to have a sip of his whiskey. “This place is really a snooze fest isn’t it buddy?’’<br/>
Curt smiled before he could catch himself, it really was, and Joe had raised his voice to attract the attention of a number of customers around him – all scowled. </p><p>“Let’s get out of here,’’ Joe whispered in Curts’ ear, far too close for comfort. Curt forced a tight smile onto his face for the hundredth time that evening, as he complied to the offer.<br/>
Not just because it would be some fun in an otherwise uneventful evening, but because Curt was now 100% this was not his guy. Far too amateurish to be MI6.</p><p>Joe grabbed Curt’s arm and pulled him up unceremoniously. Whilst Curt was prepared for anything, he was not prepared to be pulled out of his chair in a non-confrontational manner by a potential suspect, so the moment his ass left the seat he relied entirely on Joe to keep him upright.<br/>
Once steady, Joe once again leant towards Curt, and whispered in his ear. “Come on love, lets go have a little bit of fun.’’ His face burned at the term of endearment.</p><p>Drunkards danced and chanted along the streets of London, with little care to the people asleep. Rain drizzled lazily, it was quite entertaining to see the people run from cover to cover, some pulling jackets above their heads. Curt hadn’t felt like this for years, he was close to being carefree. Joe pulled Curt along, leading him through each street, still chatting aimlessly about anything and everything. But nothing of worth, Curt noted. Nothing that he either didn’t already know or was of use to his mission. </p><p>They were nearing a bar, of which it seemed most of the drunks seemed to be coming from when Curts’ watch beeped. He quickly hid it from Joe who either couldn’t hear it over his own speech or didn’t think it warranted a reaction. Raising a finger to silence Joe, he stepped out of earshot of any surrounding people, and pulled out his CIA issued phone. It had a total of five numbers on it and should be destroyed after his mission.</p><p>Barb answered immediately, “Hey Curt.’’<br/>
“Barb, what is it?’’<br/>
“Your watch measures your alcohol intake. You’ve had too much already and it’s a bit late Curt, shouldn’t you be near the hotel. The tracker here says that you’re on the other side of London.”<br/>
“Oh, come on Barb, let a man have a bit of fun, anyway I’m tracking the suspect right now, no time to sleep.’’ Barb’s sigh was loud enough that Curt could hear it through the phone. He didn’t tell her that his suspect wasn’t really a suspect. What she doesn’t know won’t hurt her.<br/>
“You’re not a man you’re property of the United States Government, but stay safe, I-we need you back.’’<br/>
Without saying goodbye, Curt hung up, and walked back to Joe – who was now in a heated discussion with another man about god knows what. “Hey sorry about that.’’</p><p>“Who was that,’’ Joe turned his attention to Curt as they stepped into the bar, “from the look on our face she was a concerned girlfriend.’’ He quirked one eyebrow at the disgusted look on Curt’s face, who had to shout to be heard over the deafening music.</p><p>“God no, she’s not my type.’’ He knew he was asking for the answer he got the moment the response left his mouth, he could have just said no, but naturally he had to run his mouth without thinking. “What is your type then?’’ </p><p>Tall, dark, handsome and definitely not spy approved, he thought. </p><p>“Not blonds,’’ he said instead, trying to evade the question. </p><p>“Good to know,’’ Joe said with a smirk, causing Curt to blush again. This was becoming an awful habit, one Curt planned to nip in the bud as soon as he had a few drinks.</p><p>They sat in a silence, though not awkward, as they sipped their drinks – Curt had finally upgraded to a whiskey- when his watch beeped again. He ignored it at first, he shouldn’t but it was incredibly late, his brain was slightly cloudy, and he didn’t want to risk calling Cynthia and talking to her whilst not in the right state of mind.</p><p>But then it beeped once more. And again. Again. Again.<br/>
It came to the point that Joe had noticed it and said, “Nick mate I really think that needs answering.’’ </p><p>Against his better judgement, Curt called Barb – still sat besides Joe in the stuffy bar – and awaited her lecture when he answered. </p><p>“Curtis Mega, I swear you need to get back to the hotel room, and I can see your alcohol intake has increased exponentially, so I don’t care if ‘a man needs to have his fun Barb’, you can march your ass back to your room-‘’ Curt quickly interrupted Barb, sobering up and becoming acutely aware that Joe could hear everything Barb was saying. Thankfully he had not heard his name, or at least Curt hoped he hadn’t.</p><p>“Yes, Barb I’m sorry.’’<br/>
“No, not sorry Barb. I have to monitor your reckless ass and if you do something stupid, I get asked why I couldn’t control you so it’s not just your butt on the line, it’s mine. So, can you please just go back to the hotel and try not to risk the integrity of this mission anymore.’’</p><p>“Okay, I’m sorry Barb I’ll be getting back now.’’ He hung up before anymore could be said and prayed to every God that Joe was not suspicious of him. “You better get going love.’’ </p><p>“Yeah.’’ Without another word, Curt pulled out a £10 note, placed it on the counter and walked away, he didn’t have to ask to see Joe again – he knew he would.</p><p>When Curt woke up, it was to a massive headache, and a sour taste in his mouth. Despite the pounding in his head, he rolled out of bed – careful not to be in the light for too long – and dressed for another day of waiting and watching. </p><p>Finding this Joe bloke wouldn’t be too difficult, it’s a warm day in London, so he reckoned he would be somewhere around Hyde Park, or maybe shopping in town. It was early, but if Joe was truly MI6, he would know what it’s like to wake up and go straight into business early. During their time in the bar last night, Curt had decided to follow up his original hunch with Joe. One slightly doubtful lead was better than no lead at all.</p><p>However, there was no tall, dark haired man in Hyde Park (only an animated netball game), and all of London was much too big for Curt to confirm if Joe was in one specific place. Instead of waiting by Serpentine and hoping he would miraculously show up, Curt decided to take the half hour walk down to Piccadilly. The noise of children screeching was making his head hammer. He knew that in Piccadilly Circus it would be no better, but there was something comforting about the tall buildings surrounding him. Keeping him trapped, and anyone else there.</p><p>Sitting and waiting was easily the worst part of this. All Curt had to entertain himself were the billboards and thoughts of the current Korean War, now the CIA were sending 1500 expatriate agents north. Intelligence gathering was enjoyable at the best of times, and with a war brewing it was downright dangerous. Curt craved that danger, that sweet rush of adrenaline as he rushed into a building, not sure he would make it out alive.</p><p>The boredom left him restless as he ached to do anything other than sit and wait and watch. Constructing stories for everyone walking past soon became monotonous as eventually all Curt could come up was ‘business-man, sick of his wife and tired of his child.’ In London every man was a carbon copy of the other, especially during the day. </p><p>As he was debating whether to leave Piccadilly Circus in order to stare at something other than the mind-numbing billboards, and dreary crowds, he saw a head pop out from an alley. Slicked back brown hair that he had memorised the night before. For research purposes. </p><p>Quickly, he leapt to his feet and began to follow this head through the crowds. Left, right, left, left, right. Then they were travelling down another alleyway – Joe’s pace sped up as they reached the end. He assumed it was Joe at least, hopefully he wasn’t following a lost cause. If this was Joe, then he was now certain that perhaps not his man, something odd was going on. </p><p>He raced around the corner, and Curt sped up his own pace, however, when he turned the corner there was no retreating Joe on the other side. Curt spun in circles, looking for the missing man. </p><p>It didn’t take him long to give up however, the thrill of the taste was momentary and should satiate him. Piccadilly Circus was still as monotonous as ever, and the act of sitting on a bench and just watching was perhaps even more arduous then following a suspect.<br/>
Eventually, Curt decided to go back to the hotel, despite it being his second night in London, and him wanting to discover new bars, he didn’t want to risk Barb’s wrath. Though small, when provoked she was a force to be reckoned with, and much more dangerous than any person Curt has and will ever have to go against. With her exploding gum, and rocket shoes, if Barb ever decided to become a field agent, she would be invincible. </p><p>Hyde Park had emptied since the morning Curt walked through it – the businessmen had retreated back to their homes. The netball game, however, was still going strong, the children seemingly incapable of losing any energy. Curt wished he could do the same, instead he felt exhausted from hours of sitting on a bench doing nothing but impatiently tapping his feet.<br/>
He was captivated by the game; Curt momentarily discarded all his years of training. His usual attentiveness was gone, replaced with entertainment for the child’s game, as he briefly forgot he wasn’t a normal man. The monotony of the repetitive billboards and the humdrum of the population became insignificant, all until he came crashing into it. Literally.</p><p>Where he normally would have noticed a fly coming his way, at the moment in time Curt wouldn’t have noticed an elephant come charging at him let alone a man. However, subconscious took over as he immediately reached for his gun (the idea of maintaining a secret identity forgotten). If it wasn’t for the strong hands on his shoulders, he would have ruined the entire mission. In two days, that’s got to be a record. </p><p>Pushed back, Curt came face to face with the man. The almighty bastard. Joe.<br/>
Not Joe, Curt had to remind himself: he had to refrain from thinking of these people as people, he was only a suspect (he thinks). Nothing more. Nothing less. </p><p>His name wasn’t even Joe (it was clearly a fake name – even Curt knew that) so there was no point in thinking of him with a name. Joe was talking as Curt was arguing with himself, still questioning whether a fake name is less humanising than a real name for a suspect who might not even be a suspect. </p><p>At this point he would usually turn to his partner and ask if the suspect seemed worthwhile following. But even Cynthia believed this mission was juvenile enough that Curt could handle it by himself. </p><p>He was still talking, asking questions and Curt remained mute. Until he asked whether Curt wanted to go out for drinks. </p><p>Curt said yes.<br/>
Not because he needed a strong drink with a handsome man. He wasn’t afraid to admit this man was handsome, just afraid to say it aloud. He said yes because he was a good spy, and he had to follow up any and all leads. Even if that meant he was ignoring Barbs’ instruction and getting absolutely bladdered in the process.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Korean War - I did a wee bit a research on this (by that I mean I read one line of a wiki page), the date is accurate but I used a bit of creative licence when it came to the danger aspect.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. London 1952 Part Two</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Curt gets what he wants, but he manages to fuck up about ten things along the way, naturally.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Curt was led through what felt like every street in London, he trailed after Joe like a lost puppy, moving slowly further and further away from his hotel. Further away from safety. He was aware that he could be ambushed any moment, but after every corner there wasn’t a suspicious bloke, or a gun pointed at his head. </p><p>Finally, they stopped on Artillery Lane. There were no drunkards trawling the streets or passed out in drains. No loud music, or any of the sounds that came with the London nightlife. But there was a small café. Joe stood in front of it, gesturing at the garish yellow front smiling like a madman. Curt thought he looked somewhat like a man before they led a person to their death. </p><p>For a moment, Curt believed that Joe was going to kill him in the basement of a café. It wasn’t even a fun place to die. But everything looked so painfully innocent – the egg-yolk yellow, and the comfortable interior. The staff members inside were milling about, bored of the few customers they had. All men in their late forties, staring deeply into a cup of black coffee as if it would solve all their problems. It wouldn’t – Curt knew from experience. It only started solving your problems when you added a bit (or a lot) of whiskey to it. </p><p>With the peculiar smirk still on his face, Joe pulled Curt through the door and approached a member of staff. He didn’t ask for a table, or even a menu, which is what Curt assumed would happen. Sure, he didn’t exactly want to sit here in a brash café, nevertheless he would rather do this than the sulking session he had planned in this hotel room. </p><p>Instead, much to the astonishment of Curt, he asked to see the Mayor.<br/>
Even as they were led back to the store, Curt began to question just what ‘the Mayor’ was code for. It couldn’t be the Mayor of London? Maybe it was Joe’s MI6 boss?<br/>
They began to approach a fridge which didn’t help answer any of Curt’s questions.  Was it a special poison? ‘The Mayor’ couldn’t be in a fridge, right?</p><p>If Curt’s shock for the evening could increase anymore it would, as the fridge door opened, he was greeted by a speakeasy. The air of exclusivity almost made Curt sworn. He loved feeling special and standing amidst the moodily lit cocktail bar and exposed brickwork, he felt truly special. </p><p>The boredom of the day, and his plans to sulk were overlooked the moment he sat on the bar stool and opened the menu. There was no need to read what drinks they had to offer he knew within an instant that he would get absolutely smashed. Barb, Cynthia, and stupidly charming suspect be damned.</p><p>With a place so secretly kept, and lavishly furnished you would assume the owner would be equally secretive, and mysterious. Curt imagined someone who wore black suits, perfectly fitted and had their hair styled to the point. The thought nearly made him drool.<br/>
So, when he was greeted by the server (who introduced himself as the owner) he was disappointed to say the least. The man shook his hand with such vigour, he feared he would lose it. And he tilted his cowboy hat so low when greeting Joe, he nearly lost it. Perhaps more disappointing than his outlandish personality, and cowboy attire was his name. His parents should be charged with neglect and abuse. </p><p>Who names their child Dick Big and gets away with it? </p><p>At this rate, Curt wasn’t going to get his drinks. Dick was unshakeable, and Joe didn’t think to help Curt – only laugh at his predicament. Finally, he left. Curt supposed Dick had heard his not so quiet complaints to Joe about him, took a hint and abandoned him to his Mayor themed alcohol.</p><p>But he came back – accompanied by a red headed woman. It was stupid to think, but Curt could swear she looked exactly like a partner he had on a mission two years back. He’s not one to remember partners, however she was remarkable, and it was a shame to never meet her on mission again. Unlike Curt, she was quick to escape Dick’s grasp, and even quicker to recognise her ex-partner. </p><p>Without missing a beat, she slipped into the seat beside him and whispered into his ear – deliberately making him jump. ‘’Fancy seeing you here Curt Mega.’’ </p><p>Her Russian accent was thick and unmistakable. Tatiana Slozhno. </p><p>Tatiana Slozhno had just revealed his goddamn identity to the suspect. He couldn’t believe it. Joe’s raised eyebrow made it painfully clear that despite the music, he still heard. As much as he loved the woman, Curt was considering poisoning both hers, his, and the suspects’ drinks. Three birds, one stone. </p><p>That was until Joe on the other side of him whispered into his other ear, assuring him that it was perfectly normal to give out a fake name to a shady British bloke in a bar, and he needn’t worry. </p><p>The reassurance fell on deaf ears, as Curt began to panic. His identity was blown. By Tatiana fucking Slozhno. Cynthia was going to kill him. Barb was going to give him explosive gum and watch his head burst for ruining this mission. He shouldn’t even be in this bar. Not having a drink. He should be in the hotel. He needed to get to the hotel and fix the entire situation. </p><p>And to think, Curt was planning on not even going back to his hotel room that night. Even when he believed he would spend his evening in a crappy café, he still had the plan to get shitfaced and get laid. Whether that was by the tall exasperatingly charming fucker next to him, or some random bloke. But now his plans were foiled, and all he had left was the hope that he could get back to the hotel room and still have a job after this. </p><p>Without thinking, he stood up and moved to leave the speakeasy. It was all too much. The music which had before been comforting, was now suffocating. The smell which had been pleasant, now made him nauseous.</p><p>He didn’t expect a hand to reach out and grab him, least of all did he expect the hand to belong to the same bastard who put him in this situation in the first place. He pulled him back to the barstool, muttering excuses like ‘you’re drunk at least let me or Tati take you home’, and ‘I need to get your number, so we don’t just keep bashing into each other.’<br/>
All Curt could think was: God they’re on a nickname basis now.</p><p>It took Tatiana months to even call him anything other than a snide curse in Russian, yet in a few minutes she and ‘Joe’ were best friends. It was so infuriating, and Curt could do nothing but sit there and watch as Joe insisted that he ‘really wasn’t sober enough to walk home’, despite the fact that Curt reminded him more than once that he was perfectly capable of hailing a taxi. </p><p>No. So Curt had to sit in the speakeasy on a stool that was making his arse hurt, and he wasn’t even enjoying the drink. What made the pair believe that if he had a secret identity, that he would be willing to reveal where he was staying was beyond him. </p><p>His watch began to beep maddeningly, and Curt nearly ripped it off and dunked it in Tatiana’s vodka. His head was beginning to pound and the beeping was going straight through him. He couldn’t just ignore Barb, less she believes him unconscious and sends back-up, but he just couldn’t deal with her right now.<br/>
Instead of calling her – like he should, like he has been trained to do – he sends her a simple text message. </p><p>CM: Dont worry about me, in bit of a sticky situation, will be back to hotel soon CURT<br/>
Barb's response came seconds after his.<br/>
BL: Get back to the hotel now, we don’t pay you to drink. </p><p>Escaping Tatiana and Joe was easier once the pair had a few drinks in them. Within an hour he was back at the Carlton Hotel, preparing himself for another restless night. He didn’t get to so much as close his eyes, when a knock sounded on the door. Though Curt ignored the knocking, it remained insistent. He opened the door to him. Because who the fuck else could it be. Curt was a fool to believe he couldn’t escape this man. Joe’s hair was disheveled, and he clutched a red and black jacket in his arms. Curts jacket. Fuck.</p><p>The pieces clicked together in Curt’s head as Joe raised the jacket up and smirked that god awful amazing smirk. In his rush to leave the speakeasy, he’d left his jacket, and Joe being the polite, kind, bastard of a Brit he was had followed Curt all the way to the front door of his hotel room. Fantastic. Fan-fucking-tastic. While he was at it he might as well lead Joe to the Top Secret file stashed underneath the mattress. Not at all like how a fourteen year old girl would hide her diary; no, how a professional 20 year old spy would hide his confidential, very important, lose-this-and-die-by-Cynthia-Houston's-hands, file. Because that’s what he was, a professional spy. So professional in fact, that he got followed for streets without noticing. God, he really did see a pretty face and threw all training, all common sense, out of the window.<br/>
“I think you forgot this love.’’</p><p>And there he goes again, calling Curt love. Curt didn’t want to say he liked it ( he did, he really did), but his blush rose unbidden on his face again, and it was impossible to hide. Joe’s dastardly smile made him blush more (he didn’t believe that possible, but here he was looking like a goddamn tomato). </p><p>It was a brash decision - stupid really - to grab Joe by the arm and pull him into his hotel room, shutting the door behind him. But Curt decided in that instant that if was going to mess this mission up beyond recognition, he was at least going to have fun doing it. Besides it was a relief to see Joe’s suave countenance replaced by a small amount of panic. Finally Curt was in control, just how he liked it. </p><p>Curt had seen the way Joe looked at him, the same way Curt had looked at many men himself. Shy eyes, and a half hidden blush, prepared to insist he was doing anything but if his actions were questioned. Yes, Curt was right - this plan would work.</p><p>It was as difficult as hog-tying a bull frog with dental floss, but eventually Curt had managed to get Joe to kiss him, and he'd be damned if he stopped anytime soon. </p><p>Curts jacket was dropped, forgotten as Joe's arms reached up and gripped Curt's forearms, biceps, shoulders. Tracing Curt's body with his hands so as to commit it to memory. His mouth was harsh against Curts. The kiss was fierce, and more passionate than Joe's previous terms of endearment would suggest. </p><p>It progressed into a fight between the too, grips edging on painful, kiss becoming a battle. Curt had never enjoyed himself more. </p><p>Joe's mouth moved to Curts ear, whispering 'love', sending shivers down his spine. Reaching up to take his shirt off, he stepped backwards towards the bed, receiving the same smirk from Joe he has grown used to. A laugh escaped from him as he fell backwards onto the bed, Joe landing on top of him. It was about time he enjoyed himself. </p><p>***</p><p>Curt blinked awake as his alarm sounded, keeping his eyes closed in a desperate attempt to keep reality at bay for as long as possible. Soft breathes sounded next to him, and Curt sighed contentedly as he remembered the night before. Contentedness was a strange feeling, one that Curt didn’t entertain often, nevertheless it was welcome. </p><p>Reaching his left hand up to brush his hair off his forehead, his alarm still sounding in the background, he was met with some unexpected resistance. He opened his eyes, and saw that his hand (only his left hand he noted) was bound to one corner of his bed by rope. Forgetting all pretenses of calm and potential crude jokes, Curt sat up immediately, ignorant to the pain now obvious in his wrist. The soft breathes stopped temporarily. Sat cross legged besides him, brandishing Curt’s Top Secret file like a trophy, was none other than Joe. </p><p>“Good morning love.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>The Mayor of Scaredy Cat Town - this is a real bar under a little breakfast café on Artillery Lane in London. You pop in, ask to see the Mayor, and they actually send you through a fridge to the bar (which serves Mayor themed alcohol). I'm fairly certain it wasn't around in the early 50s though.</p><p>ALSO: It may be the 50s and yes curt had a watch that can measure his alcohol intake and can send text messages with a little phone,, I've simply decided that the CIA had this sort of tech long before us civilians</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
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